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Tight Ass Tuesday: Tighten Your BELT

Finally, life is back to normal, in both a macro and micro sense.

Jury duty is done, my hacked blog has been restored and work once again takes place during normal working hours. On top of that, there’s been long-term normalcy abounding: I am fully Abilified and Paxilated and it’s been months since I’ve considered executing that suicide pact with the dogs. Yes, I have enjoyed several consecutive months of living happily between the poles rather than bouncing back and forth between them.

Months! In a row! Do you know what a big deal that is in my world? I’ll tell you: A BIG GIANT FUCKING HAIRY SON OF A BITCH OF A DEAL.

There can be only one way to celebrate! Champagne? No! Cake? No! 8-balls and hookers? No!

DUCK FAT-FRIED POTATOES? Yes, sir!

Duck is the culinary gift that keeps on giving because not only do you get to enjoy the duck, you get a precious store of golden duck fat in which to fry things, the most obvious, simple and delicious being the humble potato.

Behold, the lowly tuber is elevated after a magical dip in the duck fat hot tub:

No, these are not merely fried potatoes. They are the BEST of all possible fried potatoes, and the only way they could be better would have been if I’d had enough duck fat to fully submerge them and had made true French fries. And even then, they’d only have been marginally better. These potatoes are crisp and rich and salty and addictive, and it’s a good thing I don’t often have duck fat lying around because a person doesn’t need to eat the amount of potatoes I would consume.

My abiding love of duck fat-fried potatoes notwithstanding, I had to make something else for dinner, for one does not subsist on potatoes alone.

Well, scratch that, one might be happy to dine on potatoes alone. But one’s spouse may have better eating habits than one, and might wish for a dinner made of something other than starch and fat, so one might do his or her best to accommodate.

Thus was born the BLT frittata, or as I call it, the BELT. Okay, the “L” is actually spinach, but when you write “BST” it sounds like a time zone or an IRS form, so I’m sticking to BLT. (Although when you put the “E” in, you get “BEST,” so I guess there’s something to commend accuracy.)

I cooked up some thick-cut bacon I had left over from the Failed Slurry Experiment,** removed it from the pan and tossed in a diced tomato that had been plucked from the garden mere seconds prior. I wilted down some baby spinach, poured over some eggs and shoved the whole mess into a hot oven to cook through.

*Also the name of my new emo Reggae-core string quartet.

After 10 minutes or so, I had a puffy egg cake that thankfully did not adhere itself to the pan the way I’d feared it might. The frittata flipped easily onto the plate, leaving me with a golden circle studded with green and red.

Sometimes I look at the picture and think, “pretty!” and sometimes I look and think “those greens are past their prime!” but trust me that in real life it actually was attractive and looked like something you’d want to eat rather than a blight on your crisper drawer.

I heaped my plate with potatoes, added a few triangles of frittata and rang the dinner bell. Metaphorically. I don’t have an actual bell. It would probably annoy the neighbors. Either that, or they would all show up looking for food, and I don’t run a cafeteria.

I’ve already told you about the potatoes, so I won’t go there again because if I start I may not be able to stop.

The BELT was a great partner; it had pops of salt from the bacon, a hint of tempered sweetness from the painfully fresh tomato and the gentle bite of spinach. I mean, I won’t lie to you: I left most of it for Brian and gorged on potatoes (remember, we’re celebrating) but it was a good all-in-one summertime dish that would be happy at the breakfast, brunch or dinner tables.

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